Rhapsodos: Desiderata
by Li-Bai - Opus 3 No. 2
Summary: I thought you loved me. But apparently it seems that while a child of a poor peasant can be gifted with that blessing, not even the son of a Mayor can afford a simple pleasure such as that. Genesis centric, rated for themes.


Runner-up for Best Angst in the 2008 Genesis Awards! Thanks a lot everybody :)

**A/N:** Just a little Genesis character study - kinda like a soliloquy, I guess (He is a very twisted young man. But I love him nonetheless). 'Desiderata' means 'something desired'.

Crisis Core spoilers and abuse of italics yonder, so ye be warned.

**Summary:** I thought you loved me. But apparently it seems that while a child of a poor peasant can be gifted with that blessing, not even the son of a Mayor can afford a simple pleasure such as that. Genesis centric, rated for themes.

Thanks for the nomination to the 2008 Genesis Awards for Best Angst! :)

**Fiction Rating:** T/M (for themes that may be interpreted as adult)

**Disclaimer:** (sings One-Winged Angel style) I don't own!!

R&R!

* * *

**Rhapsodos: Desiderata**

* * *

When I appeared on that familiar doorstep for the first time in three months, you seemed stunned. Or perhaps shocked - after all, the least thing you'd expect was for me to show up just after you thought you'd gotten rid of me.

Everything was just as I remember. The flowers on the table and Father reading his books; the towels over the stairway banister, the smell of fresh pastry... Mother's famous Apple Pie, cooling on the windowsill, made from White Banoras and White Banoras only. When we were children, Angeal and I handpicked the best apples from the orchards ourselves. I wonder who picks them now?

Time seemed to stop. Both of you froze, and the sight of your faces were both so wrought with surprise and astonishment - and such raw _panic_ and _terror_ - that it brought me a sick, pleasurable sense of satisfaction, the knowledge that I was finally one step ahead of you in your plan to get rid of me once and for all.

Don't deny it. Don't lie about it. You've been feeding information about me to the Shinra during my absence. I know you have. I can see beneath the surface and I can tell that you've been planning it for a long time.

Oh? And it's only a coincidence that Shinra sends Her men to be exactly where I was last? How do you explain _that_?

(_ No hand in it, you say. Of course, of course, there's _no way_ you could have _possibly_ known my location..._ )

Don't put my sanity under scrutiny here, Father, I'm perfectly sane. Intoxicated? Not I... unless you count being intoxicated by the immense euphoria produced by the close and lingering presence of Death. But otherwise, I'm every bit as sane as you are, Father, every bit as aware as you were when you betrayed me to _them_ - those Shinra Dogs, who think they can do everything that they please.

And apparently, you think you can do the same too. You think that just because you're in a Position of Power you can do as you wish and be done with it.

You ask why I have returned, and you seem fearful. You should be - if one of Her men were to walk in here and discover me home and in your midst they would think that we'd conspired something together, perhaps that you both perjured yourselves to Shinra to protect me, for my sake.

No. It isn't. That isn't the truth!

They've been too close behind me!!

Never!!

LIES!!

_THEY'RE__ ALL __LIES!!_

And then after a pause, nauseating, sick and ridden with truth and naked and bitter with unveiled deception; Mother, you just had to put on that façade - that kind, pious smile, speaking in familiar, soothing, but trembling tones, telling me that perhaps I'm tired or ill, or that my mind is addled from hunger or war or fatigue - And you step forward with wide open arms, and though I feel that I should be repentant and step into your embrace I can feel nothing but complete and utter _loathing_.

Say it how you will. Repugnance, distaste, disgust, contempt, _abhorrence_. I feel them all. It's visible on my face as well, and I won't bother hiding it. And I wouldn't even come close to masking it if I tried; the revulsion is far too strong. I step back and slap your hands away.

* * *

_Don't shower me with your false affections._

( . . . )

Mother, you look as sad and as heartbroken as a parent whose child has just told them that they hate her.

Father, you look as angry and infuriated as if I had just physically struck Mother, instead of having merely dealt a verbal blow.

( ... _The silence is deafening_. )

Suddenly I want to laugh. The sheer hilarity of the situation is beginning to dawn on me, and I can feel my shoulders beginning to shake. So you're realising it now? That it's _hopeless_ to pretend that there was never a plot to get rid of me. Dropping the pretext and coming to terms with what is really going on? Yes, that is the best thing to do - after all, falsehoods and fiction rarely satisfy _me_.

_You're mad_, you say. _Yes, Father_, I reply. And suddenly I'm not laughing anymore. I'm striding towards you, seizing you by the collar, screaming, screaming,_ screaming_ into your face. Yes, Father. Yes! I _am_ mad. I'm furious, enraged, incensed, seething, outraged, livid, I'm positively _beside myself_ with _rage!!_ How could you do this to your _only child!!_ When I was a boy I believed that I had _everything_ that a child could possibly need!! I had a home, good health; a comfortable life, friends, good academic grades and a family that I believe _loved _me!!

I had wealth in so many more ways than one, and I felt _lucky_ to be the _privileged_ son of a Mayor, living a safe and secure life in Banora, and not some _parentless_,_ dirty_ stray _starving_ in the _filthy_ concrete streets of the Midgar Slums!!

(_ You two have betrayed me time and time again ever since I left this house_. )

I thought you loved me. But apparently it seems that while a child of a poor peasant can be gifted with that blessing, not even the son of a Mayor can afford a simple pleasure such as that.

And Father, when you strike me across the face, I can hardly believe it. Never when I was a child did you ever strike me even _once_._ Never_.

My ears are still ringing from the harsh slap, my head forced to one side from the motion. Blood trickles down my chin from my bitten tongue. Mother gasps with horror. You violently wrench yourself out of my grasp but I don't move. I _can't_ move. I'm stunned, completely lost for words; rigid with shock and disbelief, anguish and despair, and...

( . . . )

And in that stillness, I think I can hear the sound of my own heart breaking.

_How can you say that, _you say, your voice low and filled with nothing but anger. _How can you say that! How can you _possibly_ have the gall to say something such as_ that!!

_Your Mother and I have thrown away, sacrificed _everything_ for you, thought of _nothing_ but _your_ well-being and you think that we are handing you over to the Shinra?? We love you more than _anything_ in the _whole world!!_ What reason would we have to send you away?? Do you have _any idea_ of the _grief_ that you have caused us with your absence??_

_Are you listening to me, Genesis?? Genesis!! Stop being so__** vain!!**_

Silently, I lift a hand to wipe away the blood dripping down my chin, staring, disbelievingly at the crimson smears over my palm.

_You hit me_, I say softly. _You really, truly hit me_. Despite the position that I am in, you are the one breathing the hardest, Father. There is something amusing about this that makes my mouth twist into a cruel, ferocious smile and my heart swell with countless, _thousands_ of emotions.

(_ Maybe that's a kind of love too._ )

There's so much anger burning inside me. So much rage and fury and savage hatred and heartache from your treachery of having _struck_ me, of having struck _me_, that I am almost aroused.

Acting on that savage hatred, I whirl and snatch you and pull you towards me so violently that you gag.

_How dare you, Father_, I say in hushed tones, hot tears welling, burning in my eyes. How could you, how_ dare_ you raise your hand to _me_?_ Me_, the child that you claim to love with such passion...? That is so_ wrong_. Father, you are so. _Wrong_. You're such a hypocrite, Father. Such a _hypocrite_.

And when I seize my sword and viciously plunge it into your stomach you let out a ghastly, dying choke and Mother, you let out a bloodcurdling scream so terrible and devastating that it makes me want to fall to my knees and grip my hair and _howl, wail, cry_ in _grief_ of what I've _done_...

Father, I just want you to know that I never intended for it to be this way.

Mother, you crash to your knees beside Father's body and begin to scream and cry, your fingers twisted into your hair, tears streaking down your face and your body shaking violently with unsuppressed tremors.

If there was ever an emotion that made one feel so much hatred and anger and yet overwhelming _love_ for and towards another all at the same time, then I felt that now.

_What have you done??_ you wail. _What have you done?? Genesis, my baby, what have you done??_

( Your_ baby_... )

I'm not a baby anymore, Mother.

But I'll always be yours.

I step over Father's body and kneel down beside you. You're still shaking, but you turn to look at me with frightened, bloodshot eyes. Your hair is tangled and falling loose from your topknot and you are pale and trembling. Your knuckles are whitened and breathless, terrified cries are forcing their way past your lips.

Mother, you look so beautiful.

You reach out to touch my face. Your hand is quavering so badly that I have to reach up and still it with mine upon your wrist.

I savour this touch. I will remember it every day for the rest of my short, bitter life. I will imprint every second of this small, brief moment into my memory, the feel of your hand touching my cheek, because it is the last time that I will ever feel it. I will never be allowed to feel such happiness again.

I let go of your wrist and draw my arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a tight, loving embrace. I breathe in deeply the scent of your perfume and wrap a lock of your hair around my finger. Your tears soak my coat at the shoulder but I don't mind.

( _I will always be your shoulder to cry on, Mother._ )

Then I take my sword again and thrust it through your stomach like I did Father and you let out the same, shocked, dying choking sound as he did, your eyes wide with terror. I stroke your hair and smile softly at you.

_Mother, I love you_, I whisper into your ear. Then I press a last, tender, lingering kiss at the side of your mouth and lower you gently down to the floor as your eyes close and your life-spirit slips away. I withdraw my sword, ignoring the sickening sound made of blade through bloodied flesh and step outside to clean it, dragging it through the blades of grass until it is free from any stains.

I leave the sword outside as I re-enter the house. _Our_ house. You are both lying on the floor, side by side, and even while you are in death I am still jealous of you - because while here you are, together, even away from the constraints of this dark, stained world, I am alone and I will _never_ be able to feel anyone's warmth ever again.

But this - Mother, Father, it was all for you. Even if _you_ don't love me anymore _I'll_ always love you.

I bury you outside, together, under the Apple tree, with flowers and a headstone and small rocks arranged just so. It's just like what Grandfather's grave looked like, Father. You would be proud of me if you could see it.

( _In memory of Abel and Sarah Rhapsodos, Mayor and Lady of Banora and the best parents in the world. May the Goddess rest your souls; I love you. _)

I go back inside and do my best to clean up the floor. Mother, you could never stand dirt and uncleanliness in life, and in death I would expect it to be no different. When the stains are gone and the floor is dry, I clean my hands. Then I see it - Mother, your famous Apple pie, cooling on the windowsill, made from White Banoras and White Banoras only.

(_ I wonder who picks them now?_ )

* * *

Someone has already cut themselves a slice.

It's almost cold. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste. Wouldn't you think? Father, you always scolded me when I never finished my meals properly.

( . . . )

You always made the best Apple pies, Mother. If it was a talent that you'd let be known to others outside of Banora, I bet people would have flocked from far and wide just to have some.

It's sweet and flavoursome, the best thing I've eaten in a while. Even better than the apples themselves.

It tastes good. Better than I can remember it.

But there's a faint bitterness that I never recall being in any of the others. Mother. It's curious. Father, what do you think? Can you taste it too?

No, of course you can't. Only I can.

After all, good as they are, the Apple pies only taste their best when there is someone with you to share it.

**( And that's all...? )**


End file.
